Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) (19 page)

A woman behind the bar in a bikini and a Santa Claus cap came over to me. She flipped a napkin onto the bar. A black light under the bar turned her teeth milky blue when she smiled at me. It did the same to her skin. She had very large blue breasts. She was wearing a wig of long, straight pinkish hair that looked like cellophane. She was either gorgeous, or she was a man. I just couldn’t tell.

“Gitcha something?”

I asked for a beer. National Premium. Support the home team.

“That’ll be eight dollars.” I gave her a ten. I neither expected my two dollars change nor got it. The beer was warm. Up on the runway, the dancer had placed her palms against the mirrored wall now, just below the eyes of the cat, and was leaning forward, as if a cop was about to frisk her. Her pelvis was thrust out. She was giving a sort of slow-motion rabbit tail shake with her rear end. Her rhythm had nothing at all to do with the song, whose tempo was revving up even as the dancer’s rear end rocked languidly. I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. It just came out. I don’t even know if the woman was aware of the effect; the way she had placed herself on the mirrored wall, the swizzle-stick whiskers appeared to be shooting out directly from her bobbing fanny. The effect was nowhere near as sexy as it was ridiculous. Basically, she was mooning her audience. That’s what made me laugh out loud. The dancer threw me a mean look—her fanny still ticktocking like a swollen metronome—and with a slow motion move she pulled one hand from the mirror and gave herself a lazy slap on the haunch. It was either a giddyap move from her bag of tricks, or she was letting Mr. Laughter over there know that he could just kiss her big old bobbing bundle for all she cared. The look she shot me suggested the latter. So did the greeting she gave me when she came over to me after her number, pulling a transparent robe over her treasures.

“What the fuck’s your problem, buster?”

Her stage name was Misty Dew. She gave me a hard look when she said it.

“Dew. You know? Like the stuff that’s on the grass in the morning.”

“There’s another kind?”

She cinched her robe tighter. “Never mind.”

“What’s your real name?” I asked.

“None of your business. What’s yours?”

“Frosty Morn. We must be related.”

She ignored me. “You going to buy me a drink?”

“Are you going to leave if I don’t?”

“That’s how it works, cowboy.”

I paid a king’s ransom for something called a Slinger. Where I come from we call it ginger ale. Misty turned out to be a talker. She got onto a jag about the Ravens. She carried a mighty torch for Stoney Case, the Ravens’s quarterback. She didn’t think the offensive line was giving him enough protection, and she was worried for him.

“Look what happened to Vinny Testaverde,” she said.

“What happened to him?”

“He left. God,
there
was a good-looking guy. Big hunky puppy.”

Several times as she was speaking she reached a hand over and set it on my thigh. Each time I returned it to her. At one point she cut off her sports report to gripe, “You got a problem? I’m just being friendly.”

“I’m spoken for,” I said.

“Yeah? Real news flash. So, is she here?”

“She’s outside waiting in the car,” I said, just to get a reaction. I got one. Miss Dew started immediately to slide off the barstool. I grabbed her arm.

“Misty, hold on. I’m kidding.”

She pulled free of my grip. She eyed me suspiciously, but remained on the stool.“Look, you don’t have to do anything. If you just want to buy me drinks, that’s okay too.”

As if to show me how it’s done, she finished off her Slinger. She raised her pinky and the blue-breasted bartender appeared. The woman (I had decided she was a she) looked a little like a space alien as she stepped toward us. A space alien in a beer commercial. I ordered another Slinger for my gal Misty and another beer for myself.

“So, you know what I do. What do you do?” Misty asked.

I’ve seen many a light go out of many an eye when I answer that question truthfully. Besides, this was certainly a place where you checked truth at the door.

“I’m an architect,” I said.

“No shit. Buildings and stuff?”

“You know the big mall, down by the harbor?”

“No.”

“I designed that. You know the Science Center?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mine.”

“No kidding. The Science Center, huh?”

“Yep. Harborplace? Moi.” A knowing leer was creeping onto her face.

“Aren’t you kinda young for that?”

“How about the symphony hall?”

“You mean that thing that looks like someone sat on a birthday cake? You did that, huh?”

“Yep.”

She chuckled into her drink. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I’m the governor of Maryland, by the way. I just let that other guy do all the work.”

“Misty, dear. You mean you don’t believe me?”

“Honey, I believe whatever you want me to believe. That’s why these drinks cost what they do.”

It occurred to me that I had better hurry up and take a stab at the reason I had come down to this lovely pit in the first place. I was on the verge of enjoying myself.

“Can I ask you a question, Misty?”

“Shoot.” In the dark.

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Victoria Wagner? She used to work here a couple of years ago.”

She played the name around in her mouth. “Victoria … Could be. What’d she go as?’

“Go as?”

“Her stage name. This place might look like a dump to you, but it’s still a club, you know. All the girls have names.” Her logic was safe with her.

“You mean like, Misty Dew,” I said.

“Gee, and he’s smart too.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought Victoria Wagner was her stage name.”

“Doesn’t sound like one. But anyway, I don’t think I know her. When was she here?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Maybe three or four years ago?”

“Ancient history, hon. Sorry.”

“What about Terry Haden? Does that name mean anything to you?”

Misty tugged on the thin belt of her robe. “Are you a cop?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“These are cop questions. I know one thing for sure, you’re not an architect.”

“If I were a cop I’d come in here with a better set of lies.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d come in here bullshitting, just like you’re doing.”

Very shrewd, I had to give her that. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who might be in some sort of trouble,” I added. “A woman.”

“Naturally.”

“This Haden character’s involved. I’m trying to track him down. I think he hangs around The Block a lot. Or, at least he used to.”

“Look, how do I know you’re not a cop?”

“I guess you’re going to have to trust me.”

Misty gave me a slow once-over. I felt cheapened. Marginalized. Objectified. I’d get over it.

“One way I could find out if you’re a cop,” the dancer said.

“How’s that?”

“You take out a credit card. Or cash. We take a booth over there in the back.”

“You mean you’ll search me?”

She grinned. “If you want to put it that way. What I mean is, if you’re a cop, you can’t go there. That’s committing a crime to solve a crime, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You sound pretty well versed about all this. Are you studying to become a lawyer?”

“You got to know about more than just dancing in this job,” she said. “So what do you say? You want to go where it’s more comfortable?” A purr was coming into her voice. The Kitten Club kitten.

“I don’t think so. But thanks. It’s nothing personal.”

She let out a laugh. “Hey, it’s never personal here, all right?” She sipped on her drink. “I guess you can still be a cop then.”

“Or just a shy fellow.”

She gave me that up and down look again. “So you going to buy me another drink or are we all finished?”

“I guess we’re finished.”

To my surprise, a look of disappointment crossed her face. She asked me what time it was. I checked my watch.

“Just after eleven.”

Miss Dew shifted on the stool, settling back in. “What the hell? Lunch crowd’s coming soon. I got to dance again at noon. I’ll talk to you.” She signaled for another drink.

“Why don’t I just give you the money up front? I hate to see you drowning yourself.”

“Can’t do it. You don’t buy drinks you might not leave a tip.” The cellophane blonde, firing ginger ale into Misty’s glass, looked over at me, making an “Oh boy!” face.

“So this guy you’re looking for.”

“Terry Haden.”

“Describe him. Names don’t mean donkey down here. What’s he look like? What does he do?”

I described Haden to the stripper. Apparently I did a good job.
Jerk. Flak jacket. Porn films.

“I know him.” Misty slapped her hand down on the tabletop. “Mr. Hollywood.”

“Mr. Hollywood?”

“That’s what we called him. Beard? Sort of good looking? Talk, talk, talk? Is that the one?”

“He doesn’t have a beard anymore, but yeah, that sounds right.”

“Hell yes. I never even paid attention to his name. When I first started here he was in and out all the time. He hit on me a couple of times. Yeah. The movies. He said he’d put me in one of his movies. Like hell he would. I’m getting out of this game one of these days. I sure as hell don’t want some damn dirty movie chasing after me. Can’t you just see that? Meet a nice guy and get engaged and everything, then this stupid smut movie shows up? I don’t think so. So like, whatever happened to that guy? All of a sudden he just dropped out of sight. I’d forgotten all about him til you brought it up.”

“Is there anyone here who might know something about him?” I asked.

“You get turnover in a place like this. Hell, I’m already a veteran, and I’m just going on two years.” She thought a moment. “I guess you could talk to Popeye.”

“Who’s Popeye?”

“He owns this place. Popeye’s like a hundred years old. He probably knows, I don’t know … name someone really old.”

“Mae West.”

“Isn’t she dead?”

“But she was old before she died,” I pointed out.

“Well, okay. Popeye probably knew her. He knows everybody. He’d remember this guy you’re talking about. For sure he’d remember the girl, if she worked here. He’s got a steel flap memory.”

I didn’t bother to correct her. I got her point. “Where can I find Popeye? Is he here?”

“He doesn’t come in this early. But I know where you can find him. You know a place called Martick’s? It’s a restaurant?”

“Sure. Over near the library.”

Misty Dew told me that Popeye, the owner of The Kitten Club, took his lunch every day at Martick’s.

“Don’t dare tell him I told you,” she said. “He’ll fire me like that. Popeye is a nasty old bastard.”

I promised to keep her name—or, rather, her stage name—out of it. I thanked her for her time and for the information. I pulled out a twenty and handed it to her.

“What’s this for?”

“Oh, nothing. Let’s say, for what might have been.”

She cackled. “Twenty? Might not have been much, I’ll tell you that.”

On an impulse, I gave her one of my business cards. “If you happen to hear anything about Terry Haden, call me. Let’s say the twenty is for that.”

“That makes a little more sense,” she muttered. She looked at the card. “
That’s
your name?”

“You can still call me Frosty.”

“What’s this mean? Are you an undertaker? You bury people?” She looked up at me with a perplexed expression. Unconsciously, she drew her robe tighter. “You shouldn’t tell girls what you do for a living. That’s just a piece of advice.” She looked back down at the card, then back at me. “God, and you’re so good looking too. What a shame.”

Martick’s Restaurant is a windowless black room over on West Mulberry Street. There’s no sign outside. You just have to know that the place is there and buzz a buzzer to be let inside. Morris Martick is one of the best French chefs in the city. He isn’t French himself—he was born right in the same building that houses his restaurant—but his pâté can stop you in your tracks, it’s that good. I like the whole ambiance of Martick’s. I pop in a lot. It has that World War II blackout feeling to it; the sort of dark, speakeasy atmosphere that can take you far, far away from the world outside. Not to mention the snakeskin wallpaper and the full-size statue of the thick-ankled motherly woman holding a loaf of fresh-baked bread. My parents used to frequent the place. They were old buddies of Morris.

There was an ambulance and a police car parked on the street out in front of Martick’s. I didn’t take this as a good sign. It wasn’t. An old man wearing a pair of bottle-bottom eyeglasses was being wheeled out of the restaurant on a stretcher. He wasn’t being wheeled out with any sense of urgency. There was no need. Once you’re dead, you’re dead. Popeye had been shot right in the middle of his pâté. I saw Morris Martick standing at the open door, looking back into the restaurant. He looked pissed.

I
was experiencing an eerie sense of déjà vu all over again. For the third time in exactly a week, I stood by and watched as Baltimore City police and detectives moved about within the confines of a yellow crime-scene tape, sifting for clues to a murder. Unlike the case with Helen Waggoner, Popeye’s murder had plenty of eyewitnesses. And the witnesses had plenty of conflicting memories of what they had just seen. The killer was either tall or medium height, bulky except where he was thin. He wore either a blue watch cap, a black ski mask rolled up, an Orioles cap or simply had a nice, thick head of hair, black or brown. He held the gun in his left or right hand—or both—and he either shouted something just before he pulled the trigger or he never uttered a sound. About the only thing that the witnesses agreed on was that the killer hadn’t escaped in a hot air balloon. Or if he had, no one had seen it … yet. He did, however, hop into a black, green or brown two- or four-door car with plates from several states and took off in two directions at once. If he cried
Hi-ho, Silver, away!
nobody was saying.

Detective Kruk seemed to take it all in stride. I suppose if you were to pull your hair out in this game every time you came up against contradictory eyewitness testimony, you’d be as bald as Mr. Clean before your first year on the job was out. Kruk apparently had an internal meter that told him which portions of which statements from which witnesses to take as the more credible. It’s a definite talent.